The object inside

And it was lost | A story

The man was, I realised, insane.

“Are you saying,” I started, another bead of sweat welling on my forehead. “Are you trying to—” but he held up a finger, silencing my words.

I sighed, shifting in my seat. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the window, catching each mote of dust. Sounds of the market filtered through the rag that served as a door, a light breeze lifting the cloth. I longed for that breeze, minute as it may be, but not as much as I longed for any answers.

“Five faces, five places,” he said in whisper, nodding to himself. He pushed his glasses back up the ridge of his nose. The rims were twisted and bent, as though signposting the madness behind. His hands, tipped with fingernails long and yellowed, combed the matted tangle of his beard, scratching at the skin underneath. After a long pause, he returned his attention to the book in his lap. It was the last of a series piled haphazard on the desk by his side. He had scoured every one.

I glanced to the teacup on the small table next to me. It was empty, the contents likely now sweated back onto my shirt. The other cup remained untouched. The liquid would now be cold, a footnote to how long I'd been waiting.

“It has journeyed, but no more.” His voice was leather, and as he spoke his eyebrows flickered like erratic moths.

“It?” I ventured, the words of a fool.

The man snapped shut the book, then laughed. The air he exhaled was of a corpse, and I gagged and turned away.

“It!” he said, controlling his laughter. “Others had possession. Now it has found you.”

I swallowed, turning back. At my feet, the satchel waited. The object inside, though hidden, burned in my mind.

His eyes moved to where my thoughts lay. A smile crept across his face, almost pity, and he grunted and reached for his tea. He drank long and hard, smacking his lips. “I explain,” he said, his smile fading as he sat forward, positioning himself so he could hold open the book between us. “Here,” he said, tapping a finger. “An entry from an unnamed priest in 532. He writes of a man, Jozar. ‘He has receded from society,’ this priest states. ‘A strange affliction has become him. It is since he found that piece of sky, a rock he holds so precious.’ Then… no, this is irrelevant.” The old man turned a number of pages. “Ah, yes. Here, again here,” he said, holding the page up for me to see.

I looked at the faded black ink that was scratched into the page. The words were like miniature snakes, the symbols devoid of any meaning. “I… I can’t,” I said.

The old man stared, then lowered the book and continued to read, as though nothing had just happened.

“‘Still Jozar is lost. He wanders at night, saddened. I have told him it is because of what he has. Of that I am certain.’” The man paused and began to cough, hacking up phlegm that he wiped on the sleeve of his shirt. When he was done, I motioned with my fingers for him to continue. “It has been here for centuries, my friend. Centuries! And look!” His voice had become shrill. “This next entry is key: ‘I stole into his house. I found it and I cast it into the sea. It has cut me deeply.’”

My stomach churned. I thought of Mara and the sea of blood.

The man again glanced to my feet, then back to the book. “‘The wound has festered,’” he read, voice calm once more. He stopped and flicked several pages ahead. “Yes, here it continues. ‘Jozar is different. Each day I see him by the shore, watching. He doesn't move. I approached him yesterday and he screamed garbled words I did not understand. Today he is there once more. He watches the waves.’”

The man reached forward and took another gulp of tea. I could do nothing but wait.

“And finally, here,” he went on. “The priest explains that Jozar is dead. Dead!” His voice had become a light scream as he spoke the last. “‘On a morning last week, the fisherman Lotfi proclaims he saw a man walk into the sea. He walked in and never came out. It had to have been Jozar, for I have not seen him since.’”

I said nothing. The air of the room continued to cloy, the fetor of decay noxious and stale. Around me, a thousand books and scrolls watched on in silence.

“That is all that is written here, friend.” He closed the book and slid it atop the others. “I do not see any accounts later than this, though many precede it.” His eyes shifted down to the floor and I wondered whether he, too, could feel it. “I believe they reference what must surely be in your possession.”

“I don't believe you,” I said. “This is crazy. It’s not possible. You can tell me anything from these books.” I was feeling skittish again, like when I first arrived. Yet, even as I spoke, the sadness by my feet denied my words. “It’s not possible,” I repeated, my own voice the one now rising in pitch. “You say that this thing… this stone—”

“Some call it the fivestone,” he interrupted.

“I don’t care what they call it!” I shouted, standing. I wanted out. Out of his shop. Out of this nightmare. I paced to the other side of the room, turned and came back again. “Dear god, this is madness,” I whispered, before slumping back into the chair.

“Your god cannot help you here.”

“I have no god,” I spat, and at that, I began to weep.

to be continued… (here)

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A short footnote, dear reader. This is something I wrote many years ago. The first proper short story I attempted, in fact. I have dredged it up and, as is likely the case when anyone returns to something they have written, culled it extensively. It was riddled with the usual follies (no doubt I will say the same if I return to this edited version in years to come), yet the bones held flesh still warm to the touch. I will reshape it here, like a golem of clay. It will take a few posts and things might get a little dark. I hope you stick around for the journey.

Photo by Jez Timms on Unsplash